


After the train

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale
Genre: Addictions, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, just lemme get to the point, talk of death, this Is undertale i swear, this ain't pretty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ('You' are Frisk)One thing after another goes wrong until, finally, you're pushed to take that final step; the step that sent you falling into the underground.Or: Frisk is depressed and loses all the stuff they loveOr: Frisk makes a lot of bad choices and has to legally die and meet an entire civilization of monsters before they start making good onesOR: the author eats toast and can't decide on a summary





	1. Demon in the window

It's dark outside and you only have to take one look to know; its gonna be one of  _those_ nights.  
  
The kind of night where you stay up until some unholy hour in the morning watching kid's cartoons because you're terrified of seeing a face in your window. Its degrading, but it works, so you don't care. At least, that's what you tell yourself.  
  
It's currently 2 am and you're on episode eighty-seven of Phineas and Ferb. You had been watching the show in starts and stops, mainly whenever you think you saw a demon in the corner of your eye.  
  
Your phone has been buzzing for awhile, but you only just now find the strength to check it.   
  
It's your long lost brother. (Hes not lost, but it feels like it. Hes always far away, spending all his time with a family of his own. He doesn't see that its falling apart.) He wants to know if you wanted any of the games he didn't use anymore.  
  
The list is pretty long, but you expected nothing less. The guy was addicted. Video games were his alcohol.  
  
...But you had plenty of 'alcohols' too. The addictions piled high and dug painful holes into your savings.  
  
Still, you accepted all the games without checking the titles. Even if you didn't play them, maybe you could sell them.  
  
You hear a train horn blare and chills run all over your body; there's so many and, for a moment, you cant move. It passes, but not before slam dunking your mind into depression.  
  
Now instead of actually watching the show that's soaking up your electricity bill, you zone out. You don't have the energy and never mind the mental presence to turn it off.  
  
The sky was just starting to 'wake up' outside; plenty dark, but enough to confirm that nothings going to stab you the moment you step outside.  
  
The train tracks are tempting.  
  
The only reason you haven't moved is because you aren't sure if its worth the effort. That's what you tell yourself, anyway.  
  
It takes another ten minutes or so for you to turn the show off; once you've been plunged into silence, the numbness wraps around you and clings to you. You don't push it off. Instead, you use it to your advantage. You slowly get up and put on your shoes; the post winter wind wouldn't matter pretty soon, so you don't bother with your coat.  
  
You stand on the porch, rickety wood that bends where you stand on it. It's not even a porch at this point.  
  
You can see the train tracks from where you stand. (You picture your father and brother kneeling there too easily. They were only using the tracks to crush pennies, but the sight made you sick. You still have the pennies they gave you; they were flat as paper.)   
  
The first step takes a bit, but once you're going, you cant stop. Your shoes crunch on the gravel; the only noise, besides the wind and highway just beyond the tracks.  
  
You would use the highway instead, to be less messy, but then everyone would be traumatized and have a wrecked car. So you keep walking towards the tracks.  
  
You're halfway there when you finally confirm that you changed your mind, but you keep walking anyway. You're barely even breathing and the cold is turning painful.  
  
Just a little more and you can lay down and take that nice, long vacation youve been fantasizing about. Just a little more.  
  
You finally stop; you stand there and wait a bit before you turn around and walk back faster than when you came out.  
  
You force yourself to slow down; to convince yourself that you still wanted to die and were ready to do it at any time. You  _were_ ready, you just needed to prepare. That's what you tell yourself.  
  
You're terrified of death.  
  
You don't know what comes after the train and you'll never know, no matter how long you wait. You won't know until you do it; that's why you aren't sure if its worth it.  
  
So you go home and keep watching Phineas and Ferb until you pass out and Netflix asks if you're still watching. You aren't, but it keeps asking anyway.  
  
When you wake up, your phone says that your brother wants you to come pick the games up. You don't have the luxury of gas money, but you go anyway. You wont need money for much longer anyway, you tell yourself.  
  
So you go with a plastic smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i shouldn't be posting things when i probably won't finish them, but here i am anyway
> 
> i do have a few more chapters already written though, so if i can just edit for once in my life it'll be fine


	2. clean up

It's past noon, but you're still in bed. You haven't even been sleeping; your phone has kept you occupied for the past four hours. You dreaded when that 3% would finally tick down to zero. You couldn't move.  
  
You were running out of videos to distract yourself from your own life. Watching 'try not to laugh' videos was too easy and watching videos of babies accidentally saying curse words was just sad at this point. Not even fluffy baby animals could save you.  
  
Your phone finally died, going black before the John Cena theme could finish. You used to hum along to it, for no real reason other than you could. (You used to do a lot of things. Now you were just an old shell; everything you used to be is gone.)  
  
About ten minutes or so pass without movement. Maybe if you don't move, life's responsibilities will leave you alone, you think.  
  
Of course not.  
  
Life's responsibilties come knocking in the shape of pain. You haven't eaten since yesterday's breakfast, haven't showered in a week, haven't cleaned the house in months, and haven't cleaned your mind in years.  
  
The pain makes it a bit easier to move, so you take your chance to stumble to the kitchen. You open and close the fridge a few times before giving up and walking away. A sharper stab of pain sends you back so you grab toast.  
  
You feel a bit better after eating, but now you're genuinely hungry. You muster the strength to put together a pb&j sandwich, but it doesn't taste as good as you remember. (You used to eat one almost every day, claiming that you would eat nothing else for the rest of your life. A week later you were sick of them and wanted nothing to do with them.)  
  
Now that you aren't running on fumes, your head is a little clearer. You can think again. You think that you're a disaster. You're probably right. You know you're right. (You wish you were wrong. You've wished that for years.)  
  
You return to your phone and turn it on; once it loads, the John Cena theme finishes playing. You spend another thirty minutes or so wasting your life on tumblr since your phone recharged a bit. Scroll, scroll, scroll, scroll; you couldn't stop until your phone dies again.  
  
You end up taking a shower and, once again, you feel a bit better. You lost your protective layer of filth, (more like your second skin) but it was worth it for the clean smell, you supposed. You were chilly, so you retreated to your room.  
  
your bed was as dirty as you were moments ago, so you try to preserve your rare state of cleanliness and go back to the couch.  
  
 Unfortunately, the universe would hate you no matter how many showers you took. The couch was a mess. Maybe the universe was trying to tell you something. 'Either die or clean  up your filth' apparently.  
  
The train was tempting, but you were still reeling from the close call a week or so ago. For once you could easily and honestly say you weren't ready. Besides... it was only polite to have a clean house for your family to search through once you were dead.  
  
You drag your sheets to the washing machine one at a time because you cant be bothered to actually pick them up.  
  
You get stuck on actually putting them inside. This is already too much effort, but you aren't going to put dirty sheets back on your bed. That was gross. Says the one with the grossest house on the street. (You knew just by looking in their windows as you pass. They knew just by looking at your overgrown yard.)  
  
You manage to start the washer with your pitiful, dwindling fantasies of being fully clean. It wasn't worth it; you would just get dirty again. You couldn't maintain anything. (You used to make lists of things you wanted to do during the day. Now lists make you want to die. But then again, everything makes you want to die. Overdramatic.)

You mess around on your phone until it finishes with a shrill beep. The same happens with the dryer. If it was too much effort before, it definitely was now; you didn't have the energy to properly make your bed. (Even as a happy kid, you always hated this part. Why make your bed only to mess it up again, you would ask. Because cleaning constantly means you don't have to do everything at once when it gets bad, was the answer. You understood now more than ever.)  
  
It's a struggle, but you make it. The sheets are properly in place, but you gave up on perfection the moment they were secure. You threw the blanket on in a wadded mess and crawled into the warmth. (You used to put your blanket in the dryer on your bad nights, but that was when you still had money. At least being a gross wreck saved cash.)  
  
The warmth is enough to soothe your crippling depression into something more survivable, but that doesn't really help because now you aren't going to move for hours.  
  
Even after you wake up and the sheets are cold, you don't move an inch. You spend all your time going in and out of slumber, accomplishing exactly nothing.  
  
Any worth you gained from showering and cleaning your bed is gone by now. Especially once your boss calls to ask where you are and you fake sickness for the nth time. Even more so when you ignore the messages of your worried family asking if you're okay.  
  
...There really was no point in trying. Everything you do backfires in the end. You'll never change; you've tried and tried for years now, with no result.  
  
Pointless, pointless, pointless.  
  
You go back to sleep.


	3. laughter

You were making this out to be a bigger deal than it was. You've been pacing and texting the one friend you still have, frantic, hurried messages. (They were just as depressed, if not more, than you. You understood each other, so nobody freaked out when either of you disappeared for two weeks straight.)  
  
*i cant do this  
*ha maybe i can stab myself before she gets here  
*someone save me  
*someone kidnap me  
  
...And even with your panicked messages, they stuck with you.  
  
*it's okay.  
*Breathe.  
*youre okay  
  
So they said, but you distantly wondered if you should be telling _them_  that. (They were sick, with pain all over and nobody to take care of them, they said. You told them you would, if they weren't so far away. They appreciated the thought.)  
  
*hhhdjfjh  
*sorry  
*ill just  
*yeah  
  
*just Breathe  
*you got this  
  
*yeah  
*gtg  
  
You put your phone on the charger and leave it to buzz with their undeserved worry. Guilt stabs at you, but you cant wallow in it right now, despite how much you want to.  
  
You're waiting for a mother and her kid to come over so you can teach them about percussion. (Back when you were still happy and pure, it was your passion; you used to love playing the drums and backing up the band. That passion dropped dead along with everything else you used to be.)  
  
They finally show up and your heart jolts in time with the knock. You awkwardly greet them and invite them inside, directing them to where you set up your old drum and bells kit. (You used to stumble over the word glockenspiel, so you resorted to calling them bells. You werent sure why that was another name for it, but you werent complaining.)  
  
You followed them in and watched from the doorway; the kid had a bright smile, despite the bit of nervousness there. She ran her hands along the bells, tapping them in no real order.  
  
It was quiet and all eyes were on you.  
  
After a rushed, deep breath, you began to speak. You explained technique and rythm in a sort of daze, cracking jokes every chance you got. The mom had a nice laugh and it helped calm you down a bit.  
  
Things only smoothed from then on. You were on the floor beside the little girl, her mom on the other side; she was playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and though it sounded terrible, you both congratulated her endlessly. She seemed shy under the praise.  
  
It was during your latest joke that you realize you're enjoying yourself. For awhile you arent sure if you misunderstood your emotions or not. You're pretty sure the world is ending.  
  
You catch up with the conversation and make a few more jokes, but your heart isn't in it anymore. It was still nice to get them laughing, though.  
  
Twenty minutes later, the mom is standing, brushing off her skirt, and thanking you for the lesson. She prods the daughter who stands and does the same. You stand too because everyone else is; you say its really no problem. Because it's not.  
  
They ask if they can come back for another lesson; you agree since you cant say no to that smile.  
  
You say your goodbyes, wave, and close the door.  
  
Then the loneliness is settling in, right on que, coiling in your gut and pressing in from all sides. You'd gotten used to it, but after the laughter and happy face of the little girl, you can't stand it. It's cold.  
  
You return to your phone, scrolling through the twenty or so unread messages. They were worried, but they were exhausted and sick so they went to sleep. They asked you to stay safe, dont do anything stupid, and tell them how it went. You typed 'better than expected' and apologized for leaving so suddenly.  
  
The loneliness was stifling, so you put on shoes and headed outside. For once you didnt spend ten minutes eyeing the train tracks; you circled around your house before, almost reluctantly, going for a walk.  
  
...It was a nice day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the late chapter  
> since every fic needs one
> 
> anyway im sorry its late  
> maybe nobodys noticed, but i try to post on mondays


	4. dad no

The problem.  
  
There are two problems.  
  
The first problem is that you don't DO things.  
  
Say the sink is full of dirty dishes. That's a problem, yes, but at the heart of that problem is you. If you weren't the way you were, you would've cleaned it up by now and the sink would be clean.  
  
Just to get the point across, say the landlord needs money to pay his own bills; he's suffering because you don't get out of bed and go to work. You're surprised you haven't been fired yet. (Your boss is merciful; he has a daughter that's depressed, so he tries to understand and be kind. You don't deserve him, along with literally everything else in your life.)  
  
You don't DO things. You just don't. Broken.  
  
You leave your problems in the real world while you sleep, eat, and dissociate your way through what little life you have left.  
  
Those problems then grow bigger and bigger until finally they're too intimidating to deal with anymore; you could've done it, maybe, if you'd just done it right away. But you're an idiot. You think "i'll do it tomorrow" and then leave it alone for fifteen years until it's a raging disaster.  
  
Hence why your father was knocking harshly on your door, as well as ringing the doorbell (more like punching it) and demanding to be let inside.  
  
He was scared, you knew, since you were the one that actually _did something_ for once.  
  
This is the second problem. When you _do_ do things, you mess it up in one way or another. There was no escape.  
  
Your father was an 'abuser' apparently. (You hated thinking of him with that term.) He was barely ever home during your childhood and when he was, he was playing on the computer or sleeping. Your mom had to take care of his mess, since you were too young. She's had too much pressure put on her. (Yet another 'problem' you have yet to ruin; she's hurt. Mentally. _Just like you_.)  
  
In today's world, your father left weapons around the house. Not anything serious like guns, (he kept a shotgun in his closet, though. It wasn't even locked up; you were pretty sure it was always loaded. At least it was out of sight...) but small, sharp blades. Like the kind for whittling or cutting apples. (You've used those blades before; you know first hand how sharp they are.)  
  
...But the point was, you were scared of your father. You didn't know him as well as you should've and he lets _weapons_ lay around. You emailed him saying that you 'didn't want to see him anymore'... and then immediately sent many, many apology emails. You doubted he read them. (You wouldn't have read them if you were him.)  
  
You understood why he was scared. His kids were all he had left. Your mother left him when you were just a little kid. (You didn't understand any of it back then. The only thing you cared about, or so you were told, was your sandbox, which was given to the nighbors since nobody had room for it.)  
  
And now, at present time, you were wrapped in blankets and in the dark, trying to shut out the sound. You were barely breathing; you half expected him to break down the door or camp outside your house until you either come out or starve.  
  
...This was a problem.  
  
You were a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is gonna be waaaaaaaaay longer
> 
> sorry for how short the chapters have been so far
> 
> we're in that weird build up stage


	5. Hiking

It finally happened. Your boss has finally had enough of you; he's ran out of second chances to give. You've been fired.  
  
The worst part is that he was genuinely sad when he told you. He'd stupidly been trying to help you when you worked for him. (Sometimes it even worked. Sometimes he got a smile out of you.)  
  
Now you  _really_ couldn't afford your house. You never could, but now you were being kicked out. (You didn't fit into society's perfect assembly line; you were the one disrupting calm waters; ...so they got rid of you in the most 'humane' way they could.)  
  
So now you'll be living with your mom, out in the country. The same Mom that you've been ignoring and avoiding for years, as well as passive aggressively telling her to leave you alone.  
  
This would work out just fine, you're sure. (Sarcasm was all you had left. It did nothing useful for you, but at least it helped you ignore your problems.)  
  
You spent long hours staring at everything you had to pack up, repeatedly acknowledging the fact that it  _has_ to be done, yet you don't move. Every second that ticks by is a second wasted, you think, because every second that passes you  _could_ be getting up and packing, but you're not. (Your mother would be here in three days, ready to help you move all your  _packed stuff_ to her house. Even the thought of her utter disappointment and hurt couldn't get you moving.)  
  
The first two days were spent like this; you wouldn't even leave bed until seven in the afternoon. It was the final day when your mom texted and asked if you needed help packing. You didn't answer until two in the afternoon, when you confirmed that you couldn't do it yourself, and texted yes.  
  
...In the end, most of your stuff was either sold or given to the next people to move in as a 'gift.' Only your essentials and valuables (toothbrush, soaps, blades, tv, etc) were packed. At least you didn't need to rent the truck, your mom pointed out. You agreed and went with the flow. (You always did go with the flow; whatever people wanted from you, you simply gave it. You had no standards for how you should be treated. You were a metaphorical rug; you let people walk all over you and sweep dust under your torn fabric.)  
  
The ride to your 'new home' was silent, on your part. Your mom rambled about all you could do together and how it would "be so nice to be a family again," as if you weren't family before. (Really, you weren't. When you lived alone, you lived _alone._ )  
  
...You _really_  didn't expect the huge mountain in the distance. Shouldn't you have known about this? You should've known about this. When did people tell you...? (They _did_  tell you, but you were too far gone in your brooding to properly process it.)  
  
You hardly helped moving in, hardly helped in unpacking your own boxes, and hardly helped in the organizing process. Guilt had stabbed at you the whole time, yet you couldn't bring yourself to get up.  
  
Everything just seemed so _pointless_  now. Sure it did before, but this was a whole new level.  
  
You lost the 'reassurance' of the train tracks, lost your personal space, lost your job... you didn't have anything to do here. There were chores, of course, but those didn't give you any self worth; just blisters and back pain.  
  
You were officially moved in, at least. You told yourself to look on the bright side, but everything you thought of had accompanying sarcasm.  
\--  
It was only day 2, and you didn't sign up for this crap. Not only was it as hot as the devil's bowels, but nobody told you your mother babysat (because you would've complained) every other week; it didn't help that they were loud and undisciplined. (No wonder she was paid so much. These kids were more like savage lions than humans. You were scared of a two year old.)  
  
Not only were there two beasts running around the house, but they knew how to open doors and your door didn't have a lock on it. None of them did, actually. It was for 'safety reasons,' your mom had told you, who knows if someone got hurt if their door was locked? You couldn't disagree with that, but you still didn't like it.

Day 3 was no better. Your mom called everyone together for 'family game night.' An activity that, as far as you're concerned, shouldn't exist. (Your brother had come over, making it an official family game night instead of awkward-mother-child-staring-contest night.  
 He told you this was normal. He saw the despair all over your face and mirrored it.)  
  
Day 4 was... more or less, quiet. You didn't feel any better, though. It was the crippling loneliness you'd felt back at your own house, but amplified since this place  _always_  had _some_  sort of sound going on. Whether it be snarling beasts or pots and pans... _something_.  
  
By day 5, you were more than ready to go home; sometimes you wondered if the people living there now would let you in if they pitied you enough. Even if you asked, they never would.  
  
...Day 6 is when things finally took a turn. You'd gotten into an argument with your mom (over the doors) and left to sulk. You decided that you would try the whole "nature helps you feel better" thing and walk around the mountain.  
  
You didn't even plan on climbing anything or even walking passed the base, but someone still ran up to you after only fifteen minutes.  
  
It was a child.  
  
She explained to you that you should "never, ever, EVER go up in the mountains because it's super dangerous- there's _huge cliffs_  and steep slopes!"  
  
...While you appreciated the warning, you were more than a little irked that a child was lecturing you about safety and rules. You tried not to let it show on your face and instead said "thanks. I'll keep that in mind." With a tone that was probably stupidly sweet and fake. (You never did know how to talk to children. You always underestimated their knowledge of words, despite your efforts to be kind and fair.)  
  
Still... it would've been better if she hadn't said anything. You've found your new train tracks.  
  
Of course you were worried about not dying when you fell; you didn't want to slowly bleed out at the bottom of a ravine where no one would find you. Of course you'd still end up dead, but you didn't want to wait out the pain.  
  
You were desperate though. It was hard to care anymore. (Of course you cared. It was just buried under infinite layers of apathy.)  
  
By day 7... you'd decided that you really didn't have a purpose anymore. No job, no one that _really_  needed you, nothing to support, no one close enough for you to consider true family...  
  
You started cleaning on day 8. Your fantasies of falling off a cliff or buying a shotgun fueled you. Your mom was ecstatic. ("You're _actually_ _cleaning_! I'm so proud of you!" or so she said. You had a feeling she knew you were depressed; you weren't sure why she didn't bring it up.)  
  
On day 9 you decided you wanted to leave tomorrow. It was a perfect number, and now, your favorite. You spent today wrapping up loose ends; you apologized to your mother, paid back the people you owed with every last penny you owned, and donated all your clothes except for your worst sweater and shorts to... someone. You didn't know. (You did all this behind your mother's back, of course. She was so happy to see you being productive... you couldn't break her heart.)  
  
...You frequently fantasied about what people would say if you told them what you were about to do. (You kept quiet. You knew what mental hospitals were like; you researched it, in fact. They were basically prisons.)  
  
It was night now. You were wearing your worst, least favorite, striped sweater and gray shorts... paired with some boots. Your hair was already decently short... but you cut it a little shorter. (No need to get caught on a branch, or something. You were told there were no paths.)  
  
You had a backpack with bug spray, a flashlight, too many pain killers, a knife, and... snacks. You didn't even know why you were bringing these. It wasn't like you'd use them for much longer.  
  
The entire time you packed, your mind warred with itself. You knew how terrifying it had been just to walk out to the tracks... you doubted you'd make it far trying to _climb a mountain_  ...and yet your body kept moving. Packing.

Cleaning. Preparing.  
  
You were numb; you were trapped in your own head while your body moved on auto pilot. You knew the second you stopped, you'd never move again.  
  
So you didn't stop.  
  
Not in slinging your bag over your shoulder, not in leaving the note on your bed, not in texting your only friend goodbye, and not in leaving the house itself.  
  
Your heart was pounding and you were pretty sure you were panicking; it was eerily quiet and your mind screamed at you. "Something is wrong."  
  
...But you already knew that.  
  
_You_  were that 'something.'  
  
You were finally cleaning up after yourself. This was a good thing.  
  
This was... a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't be like frisk; just go heckin' tell somebody
> 
> also
> 
> see this is an undertale fic i didn't lie to you


	6. fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it'd be great if someone could proof read this 'cause i'm sure not gonna do it

 You read once, somewhere on the world wide web of lies and hidden meanings, that the probability of being born was 1 in 400 trillion. Even if that's not true, you knew it was still a small chance of being the one to be born. You liked to poke fun at the fact that you took the place of some happy, dreaming kid that would've been a millionaire by now if you hadn't been born. 

 _Someone_ had to be born though, whether it be you, a murderer, or someone who would change the world. It had to be someone. You could fantasize all you want about who you  _could_ be, but in the end... it didn't work like that.

 The thing about fantasies, is that your mind tends to forget how  _weak_ you actually are. You imagine things like jumping huge gaps or sprinting after a car or dodging out of the way of someone's fist.

It's easy to forget how slow, fat, and useless you are when you never do anything. Why did you ever thinking you could climb a mountain? How were you ever stupid enough to think that!? Your hands were bruised and your knees were scraped (you were stupid to wear shorts, too, it seemed. The sleeves of your sweater were stained from mud and blood, from one of your worse tumbles.) and even though you'd used bug spray, (too much of it) nature was all over you. It was, frankly, disgusting. But then again you were probably just used to the indoors and cities, where people sprayed poison and chemicals all over their homes.

You were currently struggling up steep slope number 27, stabbing your knife into the dirt just to get purchase on the steep slope. You  _would_ just look for another way around, but steep slopes were what you were here for.

The only good thing about trying to climb a mountain is that it lets your mind go blank; when you're  _this_ physically busy, the only thing you really have to think about is the pull and release of muscles, the sweat running down your back, and scoping out the land for your next move. Every time you get to the top of a steep slope or cliff, you look back down the way you came and tried to decide whether or not the fall would kill you; you always think 'no,' but then again it might be the natural instinct to live messing with you again. You came here to die and you planned to go through with it. You came this far so now it felt like you had no other choice. (...Really, you didn't. No money, no clothes, no possessions, you were already dead.)

 You were often forced to climb, more or less, blind. The canopy blocked out almost all the moon's light and it's not like you had a miner's hardhat on hand. It was seriously creeping you out, to hear rustling leaves but see nothing.

Everything was, more or less, numb. Other than the muted internal screaming, anyway; your mind was constantly begging and thrashing, trying to get your body to turn around and go back home, but you just. Kept. Moving. Forward. (Most of the time you didn't even know what was driving you other than the fact that you should die. Why should you die? Who knows. You just had to. Thinking wasn't worth it at this point.)

 ...

.............

...You finally found a cliff deep enough that you  _knew_ you would die from it. It was less of a cliff and more of a giant hole in the ground... but that didn't matter. (You distantly wondered if there was some sort of giant earth worm living inside, ready to chomp down on you the moment you got close; you told yourself that that was a stupid thought. Beasts, ghosts, and monsters don't exist- never have, never will.)

 

You tried shining your flashlight down the hole, even getting down on your stomach to get right up at the edge, but you couldn't see the bottom. You reluctantly held your dirty, damaged knife over the hole and let go, counting the seconds.

.......

................

It's been fifteen seconds.......

.......

.........................

...You irrationally started wondering if the hole was bottomless. What if you jumped down and you would just be falling and falling forever? Would the rush of wind kill you instead? Or would you have to dry swallow all your painkillers at once? You didn't know much about mountains, but you doubted this was normal. (The edges of the hole were all broken away and crumbled; it looked like a huge funnel... just with a bunch of withered vines around it.)

After a bit of irrational worry and feeling the terror seep into you, you back away from the hole to munch on a bit of your snacks. ...You were kind of an idiot for forgetting water, but whatever. It would be fine soon enough.

You idled by the hole for far too long; enough time passed that it almost felt like time had stopped altogether. You almost wished you'd brought your phone so you could waste the rest of your life on it until the battery died. (You had purposely left it because you didn't want anyone to call or text you and try to talk you out of it. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now you sort of wished you brought it so everyone would tell you what an idiot you're being.)

It was about time that you got moving.

You gathered all your stuff up, feeling sick; this felt too similar to the day at the tracks, where you'd already changed your mind, but your body wouldn't stop moving forward. Your breathing was heavy and everything felt like lead, but you were moving just fine.

You moved back to get a running start.

Everything went still for awhile; it was a breathless moment right before the bomb hit. The moment when adrenaline kicked in and everything slowed down. (Your thoughts were racing; you couldn't focus on a single one, except for the deep gut feeling that you should walk away while you still had the chance.)

Your muscles tensed until you were running forward- you  _never_ ran; you never  _climbed_ either- you finally  _acting_ and doing what needs to be done and it was  _terrifying._ You were getting way too close to the hole way too fast and you'd  _definitely_ changed your mind now. You wanted to go  _home_ and just- just  _do the dishes!_ Apologize to your father and mother and even your  _boss_ for fucks sake! If you could run at full speed toward a gaping hole on a mountain then you could get off the couch and live a real life.

 _But your body kept moving._ Time kept moving, your body kept moving, your mother was probably furious by now, and everyone else had longs since given up on you. All your thoughts were warring with each other, but at the same time there was a crushing sense of  ** _no turning back._** It's too late. There was no time to stop and think anymore. You just had to  ** _go._**

And so you went. You went until your mind finally overruled your body and you tumbled to the ground; the crumbled edges of the hole were your undoing, though. Instead of skidding to a stop at the very edge like a bad movie, you kept rolling until you hit the inner wall  _hard._

It knocked you out.

...The thing about  _fantasies._ Is that you always overestimate yourself.

You're always capable of more than you actually are, you always perform tasks with the skill of a master, you always come out on top, and  _you always wake up._

The real world is like being dumped into a bath of ice water where _you always drown._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would bright, happy colors be going emo to a vampire


End file.
